


The Mask in the Snow

by Saffiaan



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace (TV 2016)
Genre: Andrey loves the sky too much, Canon Era, Character Death, Free stuffed unicorns for everyone, I don't do happy, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, These two will never be happy in my fics, this is a bit sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-04 19:47:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15154340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saffiaan/pseuds/Saffiaan
Summary: They had been discreet, Andrey had made sure of it, but apparently not so discreet as they had thought.





	The Mask in the Snow

“Fuck.”

It was the last word Andrey had heard Fedya mutter. The assassin hadn’t said anything since their arrest. Not to the soldiers and not to Andrey. So the prince had spent the past hours in silence, at first trying to make conversation, but quickly giving up. Instead he had had plenty of time to overthink everything, but he kept going back to the same question: where did it go wrong? They had been discreet, on his own insistence. To prevent things like this from happening. But somehow someone had found out, that was obvious. It couldn’t have been a coincidence that the soldiers had entered the house just when Andrey had freed his lover of his shirt, lips connected in a hungry kiss.

For a little while, Andrey had thought that it was Fedya who had told someone. After all, he hadn’t been a huge fan of the request to be discrete, but that seemed unlikely as well. They were both going to be shot for this and Andrey didn’t really believe Fedya would do that to him either. If only he’d talk. If only he didn’t silence every attempt at a conversation with a glare, just to continue ignoring Andrey.

Glares and silence, that was all he had gotten from his lover. Fedya seemed more angry than anything else, which made sense. What didn’t make sense was that he seemed angry at Andrey, who hadn’t done a thing to deserve that. Not in his opinion anyway.

And now they were walking down a stone hallway, Fedya in front of Andrey. And Andrey couldn’t help but study every small detail about the soldier’s back, as if etching it into his mind would somehow make this all any better. It wouldn’t of course, but something about it was strangely comforting. The way Fedya’s hair was messy as always, exposing just a bit of the skin on his neck, barely revealing the scar there. Though there was barely any more skin visible, his shirt was a bit damp, so it clung to his back and made the muscles there visible, all clearly tensed. The only indication that he was more than just a bit annoyed about the whole situation. Maybe even scared? Andrey could hardly imagine that to be true, if only because he had never seen the assassin scared. Of course, there were those nights when Fedya’s nightmares woke them both, but even in those moments he never really seemed scared.

They stepped out of the building and Andrey was for a few seconds blinded by the bright sunlight. The cold would have seeped into his bones if he hadn’t felt so cold already. The snow crunching beneath their feet was the only sound to be heard. It seemed off, in a way. That the world would be so quiet when Andrey’s thoughts were so loud, when all hell seemed to have come loose.

Hell. Was that where they’d end up? Fedya always said he didn’t believe in things like that. That there was nothing after a person died, which somehow seemed less comforting than the thought of eternal damnation. At least then there’d be something and right now, Andrey would give anything for this not to be the end. He suddenly wished he’d given more thought to his sister’s words. At least maybe then he’d know. Though, if one thing had been clear from Mary’s many attempts to make him more of a believer, it was that God supported love, right? It suddenly seemed unlikely that Andrey would be condemned for eternal damnation for loving a man. Especially one so desperately in need of love like Fedya had been.

Andrey looked up at the sky, as if to find confirmation for this new conviction. He didn’t, but something else came over him. Something that slowed his thoughts to make them just as loud as the crunching of snow. That suddenly made him so aware of all his surroundings, while making him feel detached from it all. Until only a few things came into focus. Tensed muscles. A scar. Fedya’s breath. And that bright blue sky. Andrey couldn’t say it felt like being at peace, far from it. How could he ever be at peace with the current situation? But… he didn’t feel anymore as if the worst of evils was approaching. As if he should be scared. He felt weirdly, strangely calm. And he wished he could tell Fedya to look up, to look at that sky and feel this calm. Though even if he could, Fedya wouldn’t feel it - Andrey knew that.

A wall rose up from the morning mist, dark red stains already on it. The muscles in front of him tensed even more, though Fedya’s step didn’t falter. So maybe he was afraid after all. It hardly made the situation better. A sense of dread would have filled Andrey if it wasn’t for that weird calmness, which stayed with him even as he was placed in front of that wall. The soldiers formed a half circle around them, guns taking their aim. Andrey turned his head to look at Fedya, willing him to look back. To just see those stormy eyes, which maybe would shine through what he was feeling. To remember more than the muscles and the scars. To etch those eyes in his mind and those lips and to remember how easily they’d curl up into a smirk.

But Fedya wasn’t looking at him. He was looking straight ahead, seemingly giving the barrel of a gun a death glare. However, at the same time, there was hardly any anger in his face. It seemed to be carved out of stone. No emotion, no tilt of lips, no words spoken. And it suddenly struck Andrey that Fedya Dolokhov would die wearing a mask. A mask Andrey had tried to carefully remove, though he never fully succeeded at doing that. Still. There had been some progress. And somehow it seemed as the most unjust thing happening at that moment, that the mask had been forced back on. That Fyodor Dolokhov would die as the assassin he wasn’t.

Andrey didn’t even hear the gunshots, nor felt them hit their target.

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly don't know who would have rat them out, but if you pressure me in giving an answer, it would have been a drunk and jelous Anatole XD.
> 
> But.... sorry again? I seem incapable of having people have their happines. Thanks for reading as always and I'd love to hear your opinions and feedback!


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